Chapter 10 Holy Soldier, Slayer of the Dark

The group stood in front of the mine entrance—an old, crumbling archway surrounded by shattered lanterns and twisted iron rails. But more than its age or decay, it was the darkness that arrested them all.

It wasn’t just black—it radiated.

Thick, unnatural, pulsing like ink in water, it seemed to suck the breath from their lungs and the light from the air.

Fireblade stared into the void, every muscle tight and ready.

Her voice was steady, low. “Once we enter, Blue is in command. You follow her lead. Take formation. Stick to the plan. I’m rear guard. If both I and Blue go down, Poison Fang, Gronk, and Happy—take lead. Got it?”

Weapons shifted in hands. Blades rasped. Bows creaked.

The group gave short nods, faces pale but set.

Blue chuckled—a strange, breezy sound cutting through the tension like a warm breeze through fog.

“Relax. Worst case, we die,” she said with a smile. “Remember, it’s a game. Let’s have some fun, yeah?”

Oddly enough, it worked.

The youngest members, like Red Mist and Wry Finch, let out a few shaky exhales. Grins flickered to life. They watched her like a hero from a storybook.

Then she turned—and walked into the dark.

And the mine swallowed her whole.

They followed, tight-knit, just as planned.

Inside, the air changed.

Heavier. Colder. The floor crunched beneath their boots—bone fragments, rusted weapons, scorched scraps of fabric long forgotten.

The undead didn’t wait long.

The first shriek came from the ceiling. A desiccated ghoul, skin drawn tight over its bones, dropped like a spider—jaws unhinging in a scream that scraped across every player’s nerves.

It flailed mid-air—then exploded as Blue launched a dual-cast:

“Fireblast! Wind Blade!”

The combo ripped through the creature mid-leap, sending smoldering chunks of bone and rotted flesh slamming into the tunnel wall.

Red Mist blinked. “Holy—”

He raised his staff, casting the best he had: “Fireblast!” A sphere of fire burst forward, but the light was pale and the impact weak.

Beside him, another undead shrieked—jagged limbs twisting, a skeletal hand grabbing at his shoulder. He screamed—

“Wind Slash!” Blue shouted, and a fierce gust tore past, cleaving the ghoul in half and slamming its remains into the far wall with a crunch.

“CAST AT MY SIDES!” Blue bellowed. “I’ll carve the path!”

They obeyed, splitting like well-drilled soldiers into two flanking groups of three, spellcasters launching volleys at either side—while Blue tore through the undead center like a storm.

Fire met air. Light met shadow. Each of Blue’s spells was a practiced execution—her staff a conductor, her magic an orchestra of devastation. With one motion, she cast a trio of wind-carved fire spears that impaled three ghouls mid-charge, pinning them to the walls like insects in glass.

Screeches echoed.

Some sounded human. Others… didn’t.

But the work of the seven mages was working—an opening tore open through the center mass of enemies, letting the melee line advance.

At the heart of the formation, melee fighters pushed forward, tasked with keeping form and cutting down anything that got past the mages.

A ghostlike shade dove from above—its misty body draped in tattered robes, eyes glowing with hunger.

It lunged for Poison Fang, claws raking the air.

“Fucking hell!” she shouted, ducking and spinning, slashing with her twin daggers. Steel met brittle bone—but the thing didn’t cry out. It just opened its maw, lunging with cracked teeth.

She shoved it back with all her weight—just enough to give Gronk time to smash into it shield-first. The ghost hit the stone wall with a bone-splintering crack, its mist evaporating in a hiss.

The deeper they went, the worse it got.

Bloated corpses, mouths stretched open in eternal screams, dragged themselves from the mine floor. One had a pickaxe buried in its skull. Another wore the rusted remnants of a miner’s vest—its spine bent, bones blackened, eyes flickering like dying coals.

And through it all—Blue didn’t stop.

“Arc Flare!” she shouted, launching a blast that ripped down the corridor, light searing through the darkness, bursting spirits into fragments.

The mine shook.

Smoke. Dust. Screams. But Blue kept casting like she was reading from a shopping list.

At this point in the game, healers didn’t exist—presumably, it was a specialization unlocked later by one of the mage branches. For now, everyone relied on their reflexes, their gear, and sheer grit to survive.

And in the backline, Fireblade was the wall holding the rear.

Her swords carved arcs of destruction, each swing wide and heavy—slashes that hacked through undead flesh like paper, cleaving limbs and shattering ribs. A snarling ghoul lunged low, jaws snapping toward her leg—only to have its skull crushed under her boot, viscera splattering across the stone floor.

Another came from the side, eyes glowing like dying coals, teeth clattering. She met it mid-charge, drove her blade through its torso, then dragged it sideways, bisecting the creature in a spray of rotten ichor that hissed as it hit the ground.

They just kept coming.

A dozen ghouls crawled and clawed their way out of holes in the stone—screeching, twitching, dragging rusted weapons and flesh-stripped limbs. Fireblade spun in place, her twin blades a silver blur, and a trio went down—heads flying, bones cracking as the bodies slammed against the walls.

She wasn’t holding the line.

She was the line.

Two blades in hand, no backup needed.

Her overwhelming strength sent enemies flying—crashing into one another, snarls warping into shrieks as they were smashed into the stone or buried beneath their own fallen. Every move was honed. Brutal. Efficient.

Up front, spellfire lit the cavern in violent color—blazing ribbons of flame, wind-carved blades, electrical pulses ricocheting off the stone walls—and it stunned her. The power. The variety.

How the hell is she still casting? Fireblade thought, watching as Blue unleashed three spells in the time it took anyone else to cast one. And how hasn’t she burned through her mana yet?

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“Boss!” Gronk shouted, ramming his shield up just in time to deflect a ghoul that had lunged for Fireblade’s side.

She slashed another down the middle, splitting it in half as its claws raked the air near her shoulder.

“Behind you!” she barked.

“On it!” he growled back—leaping like a battering ram to intercept a ghostly crawler mid-pounce. His shield collided with its face, splintering bone, and he shoved the shattered corpse aside.

Poison Fang, breathless and bloody, glanced back with a snarl.

“Focus on your job, Boss. That lady up front’s got it handled.”

Fireblade wasn’t worried. Not for a second had she doubted Blue.

She was shocked.

Another ghoul clawed its way up behind her. She pivoted and slashed—and her blade howled with unleashed power.

SWOOSH!

Her sword’s Domain skill had activated.

The ground cracked in a twenty-meter radius, exploding with frost. Razor-sharp icicles spiked outward like triggered traps, impaling the nearest ghouls. Screams echoed off the walls—shrieks of agony and panic—and several creatures froze mid-lunge, their corpses dropping in silence.

She stared down at the sword in her grip, breath hitching.

If only this thing triggered on command…

If it did, the weapon wouldn’t be iron-ranked. It would be in a whole different league.

But there was no time to daydream.

The team surged forward—no longer just surviving, but pushing back.

They were sharp now. A well-oiled machine, coordinated and ruthless. Swords flashed. Spells burned. The undead tide faltered beneath their advance, and the way to the dungeon’s core began to clear.

And Fireblade was right behind them—blades dripping with gore, eyes locked on the next threat.

When they reached the bottom, the mine narrowed into a jagged stone corridor. At the end stood a set of heavy double doors—weathered, ancient, their surfaces etched with faded runes barely clinging to the hinges.

Blue approached first, boots crunching on loose gravel. The doors creaked open… and a breath of cold death washed over them.

Inside was a massive chamber. Stone pillars jutted from the floor like ribs beneath a vaulted ceiling. The far wall had collapsed—no exit. No retreat. And in the center, stretching wall to wall, was a sea of the undead.

Sixty. Maybe more.

Pale. Twisted. Crawling over one another, clawing at the stone, all crammed into the room, fighting to get out and rip them apart.

The sight made Red Mist freeze, the breath catching in his throat. “How are we supposed to… survive that?” he whispered.

“Hold the door,” Blue called. Her voice sliced through the fear like a blade. Sharp. Commanding.

“I’m going in alone.”

Before anyone could protest, she sprinted into the chamber, staff in one hand, a glowing white crystal in the other. She slashed through the packed bodies, carving a path into the horde.

She lobbed the crystal, eyes tracking it as it arced through the putrid air and landed dead center in the swarm.

She fired.

“Lightburst!”

The spell struck the crystal—

BOOM.

A blinding eruption of pure radiance detonated across the room. Screeches ripped through the air—ghouls howling as the holy light incinerated them. Bones cracked and blackened, shadows torn apart like paper.

When the light faded, a wide clearing lay open—carpeted in ash, glittering with loot.

“MOVE!” Blue yelled. “GET IN!”

One by one, the team surged forward. The chamber was cramped, but just wide enough to form a line. It wasn’t perfect—but they had space to swing.

As the last player slipped through the doors, the line was drawn. No more back attacks. Now they were the wall.

And the ghouls came.

Eight. Then twelve. Then twenty—shoving forward in blind hunger through the only passage left. They funneled in, desperate and roaring.

And met steel.

Happy Riddler dipped an arrow into a holy vial on his belt. The silver-fletched shaft gleamed in the low light.

He fired.

With a whisper-like swish, the arrow cut through the air—

Then split mid-flight.

Thwak! Thwak! Thwak!

Three skulls burst in perfect sequence, black ichor spraying the stone like oil. He grinned wide, already drawing again.

“Holy rain coming in hot!”

Next to him, Rising Tide’s breath grew ragged. Her veins surged, her skin flushed.

“BREATH OF FURY!”

Her muscles bulged, her cleaver glowing faint red as she charged the breach. One swing shattered a ghoul’s spine. Another sent two flying into a stone pillar, bones breaking with a wet crunch. Her eyes burned crimson.

“I’LL TAKE TEN MORE!” she roared, then answered her own challenge with a wide cleave that ripped through three torsos in a single arc, blood and filth painting the walls.

Behind her, Red Mist cast again. “Windrush!”—a sharp gust that staggered the ghouls, clearing space. Gronk didn’t hesitate. He crashed forward, shield raised high, crushing one skull and battering aside another with a full-body slam.

Fireblade swept in beside them, her twin blades glowing with fresh enchantments. She whirled into the line, slashing a ghoul at the knees, then spinning low to sever another's neck with an upward arc.

“KEEP FORMATION!” she barked. “ROTATE! Let mages breathe!”

The line moved like a wave. Even tired, even spent, they adjusted—attacking in pairs, shielding the weak, holding the threshold.

And every time it looked like they might be pushed back—Blue stepped forward.

She tossed another white crystal into the mass, her voice calm, steady.

“Lightburst.”

BOOM.

Another eruption of radiant power tore through the undead. Screeches turned to silence. Ash fluttered in the air like snow.

Push. Kill. Rest. Drink mana and healing potions.

They kept it up valiantly, time ticking by.

Every few seconds, another batch of ghouls funneled through the door—mindless, ravenous, unaware they were walking into their own slaughter.

But the line never broke.

Not once.

They fought for several hours—no healer, no backup, just themselves, their weapons, and the burning fire to survive.

And when the last ghoul fell—its skull punctured by Happy’s arrow, its body kicked back by Rising Tide’s boot—the room fell still.

Just the sound of breathing. Heavy. Harsh.

And the clatter of loot all around them.

Then… silence.

They’d held the line.

And won.

Silence finally took hold of the mine.

No more shrieking. No more scratching from the walls. Just the sound of 22 exhausted adventurers panting—some slumped against pillars, others just swaying on their feet.

Then… they dropped.

One by one, the Robin Arrows collapsed—onto stone, into piles of ash, even onto loot-strewn corners—chests heaving, lungs burning.

Red Mist let out a wheezing laugh. “We lived.”

Rising Tide dropped her sword with a clang and flopped onto her back. “And I didn’t kill any of you. I should get a medal.”

Happy Riddler lay face-down in a pile of glowing coins, arms stretched wide like he meant to hug the loot.

“Is this heaven?” he mumbled.

But Blue wasn’t done.

She strode calmly to the center of the room, boots crunching through bone dust and scattered loot. Her steps were measured, her expression unreadable. If she felt the weight of the mana she’d burned—more than any level 5 had a right to wield—she didn’t show it.

Without a word, she knelt.

From her satchel, she drew the final piece of the strategy—a gleaming, white barrier crystal. Carefully, she placed it at the center of the chamber, aligning it with ancient rune carvings half-buried beneath soot and gore.

The crystal pulsed once.

Then erupted.

A wave of radiant energy exploded outward, sweeping through the chamber in concentric rings. A shimmering veil of light cascaded up the walls and across the ceiling. Ghostly chains formed mid-air, twisting and locking in place as the room shimmered with magical containment.

🛡️ Barrier Activated – Undead Containment Stabilized

🔔 Dungeon Secured: The Secret Mine of Sorrow

And then the flood began.

Notifications exploded across their HUDs in a torrent of light:

📈 +XP Gained: 3,240

📈 +XP Gained: 2,980

📈 +XP Gained: 3,510

🏆 Achievement Unlocked: “Might of a Thousand” – Your party has slain 1,000 foes

🏅 Title Awarded: Holy Soldier, Slayer of the Dark

→ Passive Skill Unlocked: +10% damage to all Dark-type enemies

💬 NPC Favor Increased: Benjamin Fauler

The numbers climbed.

Some players laughed. Some let out choked gasps. Gronk just stared at his interface, jaw slack, mouthing, “No way” over and over.

Fireblade let her body sink to the floor, her back against the cold stone wall. Her twin blades lay across her thighs, slick with drying gore. She exhaled, long and slow.

And through the flickering light, she watched Blue—no, Jen—standing still at the center of it all, the glow from the barrier wrapping around her like a crown.

Serene. Unbothered. Like she'd just swept a hallway, not carried them through a high-tier raid that gave them an advantage no other team in the game would see for weeks.

“She’s terrifying,” Poison Fang murmured beside her, eyes wide.

“No,” Fireblade said softly, reverently. “She’s brilliant.”

As if hearing her name, Blue turned—those piercing green eyes catching on the group. Then she smiled.

“Good job, guys.”

She beckoned Fireblade over. The other woman stood, stretching her shoulders before making her way across the chamber.

Blue gestured to the scorched ground. “Undead are, sadly, just that—dead. Stingy, useless things. Meaning most of their loot, aside from the red crystals and coin, is junk.”

She turned back to Fireblade, serious now.

“As agreed, thirty percent is yours. The rest is mine. We all leveled beautifully, but make sure no one’s under ten. If they are, they grind now. We’ve got time for one more mission today—not as big, but time’s ticking. Once the guilds get rolling, they don’t stop. You know that.”

Fireblade nodded. “So… this place. Should we keep it quiet?”

Blue snorted. “Why? I now own thirty percent of the mine’s income.” She gave a sharp grin. “Let the guilds hoard it. Every time they cash in, my cut grows. They can fight and play their little turf wars all they want.”

Fireblade’s smirk mirrored her own. “Shame though. It’s a leveling godsend.”

Blue shrugged. “The barrier we placed nerfs the spawn rate. At best, it’s now a good money farm. The miners will respawn. You’ll get paid to collect the crystals. But the real leveling heavens? They’re further north. That’s where I’m taking you next.”

She clapped Fireblade on the shoulder.

“Have your team scoop the loot, rest for two hours, then meet me at the North Gate.”